


MERCYKILL

by Indigoed



Series: VERDANT [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23062375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indigoed/pseuds/Indigoed
Summary: A young bard makes a very risky desicion...
Series: VERDANT [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1729309
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fanfic based on julimye's DnD universe! Go check his social: https://julimye.carrd.co/
> 
> I also you reccommend listening to "Lacrimosa" by Mozart to get the full experience.

The moon lit the baren countryside in the dark of the night. In the distance lie an old, run-down house in plain sight, taken over by foilage. On top of a hill stood a hooded figure, with a white horse by their side. Once the hood came off, the face of a dashing, young wood elf was revealed. The elf’s name was Tournesol St. Benoit- and he came for a visit to see a familiar face, but not for a friendly greeting or a simple chin-wag. No, the reason was a bit more… unpleasant to speak of. Revenge.

This was the place he grew up in, and it was also where the majority of his anguish came from. He could not bare to look at that run down old shack, in fact, he refused to associate himself with his childhood home or his past life; for now he was above that, more or less.

“Stay right here.” He muttered to the horse.

He slowly trundled through the fields and came up to the shack, with knife in hand. The handle of the knife was already drenched in the sweat of his palms. His mind was so wrapped up in quiet fury, he braced himself and opened the door. The door was never locked, mostly due to the fact they couldn’t invest in any type of home security. Besides, who’d ever want to take things from peasants?

The house was just as empty as he remembered, except it looked like a tribe or orcs had came in and ranshacked the place. Pots and pans lined the floor, broken glass was scattered about, and a layer of dust covered the rickety, stitched up furniture which had remained in the same spot from when he left. A few rats scattered the floor collecting some scattered crumbs in the kitchen while a raccoon searched the cupboards. The plants that were once in the pots were recduced to nothing but a lifeless weed. From every corner of the house, Tournesol could see visions of every traumatic moment he experienced in that specific area. The table he hid under when his mother chased him around with the broom, the shed where he was forced to slaughter the family pig; a.k.a his only friend, the barely-working stove he sat in front of where he nearly froze to death on Chirstmas day, and let’s not forget the corner that he had to stand in for hours on end as punishment without dinner. It was like the ghosts of awful childhood past.

These thoughts brought him back to the present, he remembered why he was here. Time was running short… At the end of the hallway in front of him lie a door, behind it was lit up by some kind of dull light. Should he? Was this even worth the trouble just for the sake of a hollow victory? He asked, but before he could ponder more on the situation he only just noticed that he was automatically moving towards the door without thought. It seemed that he became another person, a different entity was definitely controlling him.

_Here we go… the moment of truth. This. This was what you were waiting for. Right?_

Slowly opening the rickety old door, which made a soft creaking noise as it opened. He peeked in and sure enough, there she was. His mother was fast asleep (or maybe passed out? Who knew…). To her left was an IV unit or some sort hooked up to a bracelet on her wrist, and to the right was the wheelchair she usually sat in. Unlike the living room, the bedroom was odly tidy, possibly since the nurses had cleaned it up a bit to make it easy to move around. The only source of light was a small candle burning brightly. Though it didn’t seem like it on the outside, Tournesol was now quaking with fear. It took all his might to take a small peek at her. Damn, she was even more messed up than he had intially thought.

_Such a shame things had to end this way, dear mother. It would be a pity if someone ought to… suddenly end it all._

He thought. He stood in front of the bed and raised his knife, bracing himself for the attack. He looked away not wanting to see her or what he was about to do. Now this feeling of doubt came back even stronger… he should’ve stopped here but no, it was too late to back out, he didn’t come all the way here for nothing. His thoughts and judgement were clouded with a sea of rage, his collective thoughts molded into a cacophony of nonsensical jargon. With his blood boiling, tightening the grip of the knife, muscles tightening, and then with the swift strike of the knife he-

-*SHNK!*-

-the blade of the kitchen knife shunk right into the tomato. Milicent was happily chopping up some fresh vegtables to put into the stew. Her husband, Pavot came downstairs, with a small pot full of dirt in hand.

“Hey, there sprout! How’s dinner lookin’?” He said cheerfully, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek.

“It’ll be ready in a few. Just gotta put add some o’ this an’ that and it’ll be ready in a jiff!”

“Heh, y’know how much I love your famous veggie stew. Can’t wait to sink my teeth into some of that! Anyways, gotta go and prepare for this year’s harvest. The upcoming winter will be quite tough on the little guys.” he said, motioning to the plant in the pot.

A knock at the door suddenly cut their little happy moment short, as the visitor was a nurse, who had a rather sullen look on her face.

“Is this the residence of Pavot St. Bentoit?”

“Yep. That’s me! What can I do you for, madam?”

“Well, I have come to bring you some rather… devistating news. Regarding your mother Dahila.”

Pavot’s cheeful smile turned into dread. He dropped the planted pot he was holding on the floor, dirt spilling everywhere.

“Wha-what?! What happened?! D-did she-”

“Unfortunately it seems so… but it wasn’t from her fragile health. Rather, she was killed in a house fire.”

Pavot was now fully numb, standing there frozen like a centaur caught in the headlights. Milicent rushed over to comfort him.

“F-fire? How?”

“We don’t exactly know the details, the guards are currently investigating the premises. As soon as we can get more information we’ll be sure to let you now. I’ll alert the morgue straight away. Good day, and my condolences.” The nurse left.

Pavot, still wrapping his head around the situation was overcome with emotion. Milicent held his hand.

“I don’t understand… whatever caused this to happen?” he said quietly.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All characters shown here belong to julimye! Go visit his socials: https://julimye.carrd.co/

Dahlia St. Bentiot sat contently in her rocking chair, cigarette in hand. She looked out onto the barren fields of their peaceful countryside home. It had been a few years since the incident had occured, where her “child” Tournesol had gone missing all of a sudden after a fight. But she didn’t seem to care about that, nor did she care to remember. Her younger son, Pavot, came outside.

“Uh… 'ma?”

No answer. Just silence.

“I-I’ve been meaning to ask but- what happened to Tournesol? He hasn’t come back yet.”

Dahila huffed. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

“But… shouldn’t you be concerned? He’s been gone for almost 10 years!” Pavot tried to keep his tone mellow. Dahila wasn’t as hostile as before, more so simply just neglectful after her health started deteriorating, though that didn’t mean that she can be intimidating. These days all she could really do was muster a verbal beatdown.

“Probably ran off into the woods or somethin’... knowing him, he must’ve got eaten by wolves. That brat was even too spineless to kill a dumb pig. Served him right.”

\--

_Too spinless to kill a dumb pig… served him right._

__

Tournesol stood in the cold, warmed by the embers from the house that was set ablaze. The tip of the knife he was carrying was drenched in blood. The deed was done...

… but at what cost?


End file.
